[Ortus ducks his head at Viktor's plain statement, shoulders curling in a hunch that bears all the marks of a habitual one. He does not know how to answer to such frank interest, offered without pity or mollification.

Viktor, he is coming to realize, knows he is Ortus, but he does not know that he is Ortus, with all that is attendant upon him. He sees only a man from a peculiar world. Ortus wonders if it is as odd a thing for Viktor to be unrecognized (however ingloriously) as it is for him.]

Those with such curiosity rarely keep it overlong in the Ninth. [He does shrug, a wide, spreading gesture that pulls him back upright.] It would be heresy and damnation to even approach the threshold.

[He smiles, a slight, disused expression, replete with dry and dusty warmth.]

So of course, we all would talk about it, save for the most pious children. I confess I did not number among them. One of my first poems was a catalogue of the ways I imagined that the Tomb might bleed, mangle, disintegrate, and otherwise lay waste to a trespasser.

Perhaps not so suitable for performance here, given our company. Or perhaps not. With some revision, of course, as I have much matured as a poet since.